try banning stupid people instead

I was listening to 101.5 FM out of New Jersey yesterday. The DJ was discussing some list of banned words published by the Department of Defense. I made a note to find the list, but have not been successful. I did find, however, extensive references made to a book by Diane Ravitch called, The Language Police, which is a compilation of terms not allowed in textbooks by the various departments of education around the country. I found two sites, here and here that provide excerpts of her glossary. Just remarkable. To be fair, it seems that Diane was appalled herself – she was not advocating banning these terms, just reporting on it.

Some examples …

Adam and Eve (replace with "Eve and Adam," to demonstrate that males do not take priority over females). Really? Is this like an Affirmative Action thing? Will we someday say that “Eve and Adam” demonstrates that females take priority over males, and then revert to “Adam and Eve” for a period of time? How about “the first two people on Earth, one of each gender.” Ah, but there are writings that suggest Adam had a wife before Eve. She must not have wanted to let him masturbate during her menstrual cycle or something (see a couple of posts below).

Boys' night out (banned as sexist). Really? But it is a real thing. Boys do have a night out. I don’t think you ban a concept – that’s dumb. I suggest you just add a corollary for the female counterpart – “Sausage Run.”

Busybody (banned as sexist, demeaning to older women). I find this interesting. Unlike above, there is no gender reference in the term and, further, the basis for banning the term includes an age reference which is also missing from the term. Do we use “interloper”? Do we say, “that crotchety old bag can’t mind her own business” (substituting the male gender and proper age reference as applicable to the precise situation)?

Courageous (banned as patronizing when referring to a person with disabilities). You must be kidding. Can I use the word to describe a soldier that raced into enemy fire to save his fellow soldiers? It’s not the word, just its application to the handicapped (which I am sure is on the list somewhere)? What do I say – your example of living life to the fullest is like the attributes of a lion? Doesn’t it take “courage” to overcome obstacles?

Dialect (banned as ethnocentric; use sparingly). A “dialect” is a variety of a language that is distinguished from other varieties of the same language by features of phonology, grammar, and vocabulary, and by its use by a group of speakers who are set off from others geographically or socially. “Ethnocentrism” is the belief in the inherent superiority of one's own ethnic group or culture. So you are suggesting that if I refer to someone’s speech as being a dialect, I am inherently declaring my superiority. Do y’all sense an asshat close by? When someone speaks the English language poorly, I do not refer to what they say as being indicative of thie “dialect,” rather I refer to them as “grammar retards.” Use of local phrases like “soda” or “pop,” or “sneakers” or “tennies” is not an indication of intelligence, but region from which a person hails. You people are idjits, and give me adjita.

Drunken, Drunkenness (banned as offensive when referring to Native Americans). OK. Won’t use it for Indians. I’ll reserve it for the Irish.

Egghead (banned as offensive; replace with "intellectual"). What?!? You have to declare this? Did you find a textbook with the term “egghead” in it – or are you just sensitive to the childhood beating you took because of the conical shape of your head?

Fairy (banned because it suggests homosexuality; replace with "elf"). But elves ain’t got wings! Damn. Do I have to write, “winged female elf without the usual bull-dyke stocky build”?

God (banned). See you in Hell, or Hades, or that hoax tossed out there by the intelligent-design idiots of an afterlife in perpetual agony because you’re on fire due to your shitty life.

Founding Fathers, the (banned as sexist; replace with "the Founders" or "the Framers"). But they WERE dudes!

Inspirational (banned as patronizing when referring to a person with disabilities). So I can’t say to the guy with two fingers, no intestines, and only half a face that his subsequent career as one of the most moving writers I have ever read is inspirational? WTF?

Little person (banned as offensive; replace with "person of small stature"). Step right up! 3 for a dollar! Toss the person of small stature through the hoop and win a prize!

Lumberjack (banned as sexist; replace with "woodcutter"). But they ain’t cutting wood – they are cutting trees. Treecutter? Or is that a crack against persons with AIDS?

Middle East (banned as reflecting a Eurocentric world view; replace with "Southwest Asia"; may be acceptable, however, as a historical reference). I have no idea with “Southwest Asia.” Is it anywhere near the Middle East? I’m about ready to puke. Did anybody ask the Arabs if there want to be tossed into a pot with the Asians? Something inside me hears a “how dare you insult [whatever his name is – that guy with the bomb in his towel, PBUH].

Old (banned as an adjective that implies helplessness, dependency, or other negative qualities). Old? You can’t say old? Um, “not young”? “Senior citizen (or resident or person)”? You can’t say “old”? But he IS old! Can’t you smell him? Man, all urine and impacted fecal matter and yeast and ear gunk. Puke!

Paraplegic (banned as offensive; replace with "person with paraplegia"). What is “paraplegia”? Is that like a paraplegic? I don’t want to learn new words – or use three when one will suffice. Is an “amputee” now a “person with an amputation”? A “drunkard” a “person in a perpetual intoxicated state”? A “butler” a “person who butles”?

Polo (banned as elitist). Yeah, thanks, Prince Charles. Hey, ladies, polo is a sport. So you have to ride a horse and usually only rich people play it. Only rich people own race cars – do we ban “race-car owner”? Is “polo shirt” banned, too? I would call it a “golf shirt,” but golf is quite the expensive sport – elitist, too? “What kind of shirt is that?” “Oh, just something I threw together!” “Fairy …”

Satan (banned). Heh, heh, heh. Good luck with that. Let me know how it works out for you. He will become all too real as the flames of Hell lick your ass.

Snowman (banned, replace with "snow person"). They ARE men – by design. You ever put tits on a snowman? Not only is it gay, they fall off! Isn’t that insensitive to women with breast cancer?

Sufferer of cerebral palsy (banned as offensive; replace with "person who has loss of muscle control"). OK, this is stupid. You are telling me that every person in every medical situation that has a loss of muscle control HAS cerebral palsy? I’m a DOCTOR (I.MD), you know. This replacement phrase is factually wrong. What is the problem with you people?

I teach. I read textbooks all the time. I think I may write a lecture about an old, egghead, drunken, little person American Indian playing polo against a bunch of Middle Eastern lumberjacks that suffer from cerebral palsy. They’ll all be tossed from their horses and become paraplegics and will discuss with their cute dialects God and Satan as they make fairy snowmen. It will be an inspirational story of courageousness. Maybe they can have a boys’ night out, all dolled up like Adam and Eve, and chit-chat about our Founding Fathers and the busybodies they encounter.

I’ll write an invitation to the visiting team, “Dear Camel Jockeys …”

Enough.

the doctor is in 6

It’s good to get back into the cyber-office after the Holidays. Trust yours was enjoyable and nobody got hurt too badly – remember, it’s all fun and games until the cops show up.

Today’s case is called, “Swelling and Pain in the Back and Hip of a 35-Year-Old Man.”

Let’s start out with an exterior shot.


Dang! That boy got some butt. No hair, cute little cheeks. Ut oh! What’s that up the top of the ole crack in the china? A little protruding buddy, eh, son? Sensitive to touch? Bet you have to hang up the thongs for a bit.

We need a better look. Have to go inside. No, not the anal-intrusion instrument – I am an internet doc; only “real” docs invade the chubster on any excuse. We’re gonna use one of those machines with letters for a name, whichever one is available. “Hey, tell the tech, top down, 32 degree lateral shots from points A to B, C to F, and X to A1.” I have no idea what that means, but everything I say they write down and these picture thingeys come back, so it must be something.

Let’s see what they found …


YOWO! Lookey here! The boy’s got an ALIEN in his BUTT! AN ALIEN!! This is so cool! It’s got floppy ears! The protrusion out of his butt is its HEAD! It must have parked itself there for the food supply. Smart, them aliens are. Got a bunch of fat to suckle and, of course, the ultimate food supply – the colon – food’s already digested, got that dark chocolate nutty flavor. This is a first in the annals of medical science! A documented alien in the butt!

Another pic? What’s this?


Oh, no! This guy is in trouble. See those two circles? Alien eggs embedded in his butt cheeks. Toast. Better schedule an untimely death and burn this dude’s carcass. He’s got one alien already hatched, ears fully deployed, and two more coming. Them butt cheeks ain’t gonna be so cute in another few weeks. I estimate about 4 to 6 weeks max gestation left. I wonder if we can toss him into coma somehow, then fix the records to show his brain waves isoelectric. That hatched alien decides to exit, it’ll get ugly! They sneak right out the butt when you are aren’t looking! Let’s hope it’s a mama alien and will stay put until the eggs hatch. Man, this is so sad.

Let’s hear the guy’s story …

BACKGROUND. A 35-year-old man presents to the emergency department (ED) complaining of sacral pain and right hip pain (damn straight. Hatched aliens HURT!). The pain is associated with increasing swelling in these regions that began 3 days before presentation (the little alien dude hatched just a little time ago. That’s good news, actually. Not likely to venture out soon.). The patient otherwise denies having any systemic symptoms, such as fevers, chills, nausea, or vomiting (I agree. Aliens don’t like it warm. Anyway, they eat vomit like ice cream before it ever gets a chance to leave). His past medical history is significant for a recent admission to the hospital after an accident with a motor vehicle approximately 2 weeks before presentation (I don’t like the sounds of this). As a pedestrian, the patient was struck by a car and sustained multiple rib fractures and facial lacerations (an alien hit-and-run. Typical. Once he was dazed, this stick the eggs in his butt. Notice the precision with which they placed the eggs – right cheek, left cheek, top of the crack. Very common in alien-egg insertions. This poor guy.). He was discharged to home from the hospital 10 days before presentation and has been doing relatively well, with adequate pain control for his rib fractures.

On physical examination, the patient’s temperature is 98.96°F(37.20°C) (I can tell you right now that everything is normal – aliens cover their tracks well. We’re lucky to have found these), with a blood pressure of 129/67 mm Hg and a heart rate of 89 bpm. His respiratory rate is 20 breaths/min, and his O2 saturation is 95% while breathing room air. The patient is not in acute distress. The head, eyes, ears, nose, and throat (HEENT) examination shows well-healing facial lacerations with intact sutures. His chest is clear to auscultation on both sides, with normal cardiovascular and abdominal findings. The lower extremities have normal sensation and 5/5 strength (on a scale of 0-5, with 0 being no strength and 5 being normal strength) (see? Normal across the board. Aliens in the butt. Man, I hate aliens).

A visible fluid collection is observed in the proximal lateral aspect of his right thigh (aliens gotta pee, too; it’s building up in his legs. We gotta act fast.). The fluid seems to track up (track UP? Idiots. It is flowing DOWN. Alien pee) around the gluteus maximus muscle to the lumbosacral region, with slight crossing of the midline to the left. The fluid appears to be a free-flowing, low-viscosity collection without evidence of erythema or ecchymosis (that is EXACTLY how alien pee presents). No loculation is noted on palpation, and the patient has no thickening or induration of the skin in the overlying and surrounding areas (all normal … see what I told you?).

What is the diagnosis? (One hatched alien distal to the butt crack; two alien eggs embedded one in each of his butt cheeks; accumulation of alien pee in his legs – simple – we’re done here!)

HINT. This fluid collection was not appreciated during the patient’s previous admission to the hospital. (Of course it wasn’t! The dang thing just hatched! What kind of hint was that? Ah, I get it! See, they are telling you they KNOW it is a recently hatched alien! A-HA!)

ANSWER. Closed, internal degloving injury (“degloving” is code for floppy-eared alien): The patient underwent computed tomography (CT) scanning of the pelvis, which showed a large, subcutaneous fluid collection extending from the region of the lumbosacral spine along the right lateral buttock to the thigh and down to the level of the femoral shaft (alien; pee). The fluid collection was not present on a previous CT scan that was obtained 2 weeks before presentation (the time of the motor vehicle collision) (you mean, before they implanted their eggs INTO him? Of course not!). The patient’s laboratory studies showed a white blood cell (WBC) count of 8.38 × 109/L; hematocrit, 0.363 (36.3%); platelet count, 953 × 109/L (953 × 103/µL); and an international normalized ratio (INR) of 1.0 (yep, yep, yep, yep – alien, alien, alien, alien. Wait until the pee starts to accumulate – that’ll crank his white count!).

The patient underwent CT-guided aspiration of the fluid collection under local anesthesia. An 8F catheter was used to aspirate 800 mL of dark red fluid (alien blood – careful, they bite!). Postaspiration CT images demonstrated near-complete resolution of the fluid collection (yeah, do you think they are stupid? It went to lunch! Just parked itself INSIDE the colon for a spell), and the catheter was removed (and the alien came back). A pressure dressing (elastic spica dressing) was applied. An elastic bandage was wrapped around the entire thigh, beginning just proximal to the knee, and continued upward across the proximal thigh and buttock. The bandage was wrapped around the waist several times and then brought back over the thigh to compress the entire lower back, buttock, and proximal thigh. The patient tolerated the procedure well and was discharged to home the following day. He was instructed to wear the compression dressing as much as possible, and a follow-up visit was scheduled. The aspirated fluid was sent for bacterial culture and found to be negative for bacteria (aliens don’t have Earth bacteria! Bet you didn’t scan for non-Earth bacteria, did you?).

(I can’t listen to these idiots anymore. Aspirate, my ass! This dude has a serious alien infestation. Let’s put him under, flat-line his results, fake an autopsy, and burn him. These things lay eggs like turtles – all plop, plop, plop until the hole is filled – and the hole, in this instance, is his two butt cheeks! I’m outta here – office closed!)

A closed, internal degloving injury is a clinically significant soft-tissue injury that is associated with pelvic trauma. The subcutaneous tissue is torn away from the underlying fascia, which creates a potential space that can fill with serous fluid and/or a hematoma caused by the disruption of the arteries that perforate through the fascia mixed with viable and necrotic fat. The condition commonly occurs over the greater trochanter, but it can occur anywhere over the trunk, buttock, or thighs. When a closed, internal degloving injury occurs over the greater trochanter, the condition is known as a Morel-Lavallee lesion. As mentioned, this condition usually occurs in association with pelvic and acetabular fractures, but it can also occur in the absence of fractures. Direct crush injury to the pelvis or a high-speed motor vehicle crash are the most common mechanisms of injury. The importance of this soft-tissue injury may not be initially apparent; some patients present months after the initial event, complaining of soft-tissue swelling or contour abnormalities that are not resolving.

The diagnosis of a closed, internal degloving injury is usually based on physical findings (ie, a soft, fluctuant area over the lesion and a loss of local sensation). Diagnostic aids may include ultrasonography and CT imaging. Various methods or combinations of techniques for treating degloved areas have been suggested, including the application of compression dressings, fluid aspiration or liposuction, injection of sclerosing agents, deep fascial fenestration, prolonged closed surgical drainage, and open surgical debridement (ie, leaving the degloved area open for closure by secondary intention). A review of the available literature, while failing to reveal prospective comparisons, did demonstrate variable outcomes with different therapeutic approaches, ranging from complete resolution to the development of various complications, including infections and skin necrosis or breakdown. The complications associated with closed, internal degloving injuries often require extensive therapy and surgical management.

eating rats

I picked up this article on boycotting an Israeli water company from life in israel. Seems the water comes from the Golan Heights, which the folks organizing the boycott (which has now resulted in a cancellation of the services contract) is predicated upon the land being merely occupied by Israelis and actually belonging to the Syrians. Sounds like a quibble to me. Historically, the lands belonged to Israel. I guess all the politically correct care about are recent claims. The isolation of Israel in advance of the End Times continues. Tell me, when will Russia place “peace-keeping” forces in the Palestinian-occupied lands?

I can get to the tenth and final level of this game, but not past the windmill in that level. After two hours, I started to act out and had to stop.

When I was in high school (1976) I saw Kingfish at the Masonic Theatre in Scranton. The band was centered around Bob Weir from the Grateful Dead. Very small venue, full of mind-altering substances, great time. In 1984 or thereabouts, I saw the Dead at their Mecca – The Greek Theatre at Cal-Berkeley. I brought a bottle of juice with me. The ticket guy asked me if it was electric. I said, “Do I look like I still do acid?” He smiled and let me in, juice still in hand. It was a full liter – enough to make $500 or so – if it was anything other than what it was, which was just juice. I was drifting through the Internet Archive and found Bob’s current band, Ratdog, and a live recording. You can search on top and find more. I also found – and you can look yourself – a lot of Phil Lesh live. Sadly, he is performing much like a Grateful Dead Tribute band. Too many Dead songs in the sets. Guess Bob was the real artist.

Want access to a huge collection of Dead concert audio? Read this and enjoy topping off your hard disk.

I can’t recall if I linked this poster-creation site before – your pic, your words. Enjoy.


Nuf said, eh?

peeing on the trailer skirting is normal, ain't it?

I always watch for suggestions of links when people die. The inventor of Gatorade died from liver failure. Don’t know if it means anything. I only play a doctor on the internet. But I will make an entry in my Book of the Dead for future reference. I have noted a strong correlation between Rap singers and gun shot wounds. As a result, I make a habit out of humming the tunes and dancing only with the lights out and shades drawn. Seems safer to me that way. Gun shot wounds are not like in the old movies where the guy falls slowly backward and gasps a few final words. They hurt. A lot.

I found my new favorite site on the internet. I was surfing for internet radio stations. Found all sorts of listings. Got frustrated pretty quickly because they all make money through advertising of one form or another. Then I found Pandora Radio. An incredibly well-designed and well-run site. It claims to have taken the genome approach to music. You select an artist and create a radio station around that type of music. Each song that comes up, you put your cursor over the image and give it a thumbs up or down. The station is refined according to your choices. You can create a lot of different stations. The only limit I have run into has been the amount of songs you can skip within one hour – seems to be about 5, then it tells you that their licensing agreements only allow so many skips per hour (but doesn’t give you the number). There is no advertising, no feed issues – amazing site. I have two stations – one built around Frank Black, the other B.B. King. My daughter has about 15, but she’s a rock star and is allowed.

I rarely watch movies. Way to ADHD-Hyperactive for that. Funny, I can sit for hours and watch sports or work on my computer, but even a 30-minute sitcom drives me to pacing. I think it has to do with being able to fully engage. If I cannot, I am psychological toast. My body begins to thump inside. If I ignore it, it feeds back into my thought processes and I have to change locales. Physical movement helps a lot, even just standing. However, when I did watch movies, I enjoyed tracking data on Box Office Mojo. Lots and lots of detail. Sometimes you will get a screen that tells you that you have to register – just hit “back” on your browser and make your selection again. It will bypass the registration screen.

Daytime is 30s and 40s, nighttime 20s and 30s. Winter temperatures have arrived. I am drinking coffee in the afternoon and tea at night. My sweater is on most of the time.

I told this mutt to pee on the rug, but it won’t. Sure, it’ll die, but it won’t pee. Not very realistic in that way. Oh well.

Do you live in the Philadelphia area and suffer from heavy, long-lasting, or frequent menstrual cycles that seriously impact your regular lifestyle? If so, this guy named Larry wants to talk to you. I think he has some experimental drugs with your name on them.

Learn something new every day. I thought a “nocturia” study in Lancaster, PA, would be related to Amish cows keeping you up at night. Guess not. I will say this, however, the description is written very poorly.

I remember years ago my boss reviewed a memorandum of mine and said to me, “you say ‘stocks’ up here and ‘certificates’ down there. Those two different things?” Uh, no. “Then why do you use two different names?” It was a great lesson in consistency. Jonathan Wolter, Failure Analysis. Best boss I ever had.

Want to know what “nocturia” is? Choose from the following: 1. Wake up more than twice a night to use the bathroom; 2. Wake up with an urge to go to the toilet during the night; or 3. Waking too often with an urge to pass urine at night.

Using the bathroom more than twice could be from Explosive Bowel Syndrome, wherein the patient presents micro-blasts into the porcelain god on a frequent basis. No bladder involvement. Having an urge to go to the toilet could be a fetish the specifics of which I am uncomfortable describing, or could be a problem masturbator. Having an urge to pass urine is an old drinking game. Someone would pee in a cup, and the cup got passed until the music stopped, then, well, you complete the sentence. More often than not, however, the last one to hold the cup still tried to pass, and (laughing) the n-n-ext guy (oh, god, such fun times!) would t-t-try to refuse it, and (snort!) the cup w-w-would (Stop IT! You're KILLING me!!) tip and piss would fly all over the place and (oh, boy! Such great times those were!) ... of course, with all the drinking going on, there would be sometimes be 3 or 4 cups in circulation! OK, enough. Fifth grade was so much fun - ah, the good old days! God bless Artie's dad for being such a drunk that we could plow through his keg on tap and he would just buy a new one! Alright, back on track ... defining "nocturia." Let’s not forget that where I come from, if you had to pee during the night, you could bet the dog did, too – so we all went outside and pissed on the trailer skirting (women included). No bathroom involved.

How about this: “Nocturia is a condition wherein the patient has an urge to urinate frequently during nighttime hours, where such urges cause the patient to actually leave the bed more than once each night to urinate.” I mean, you clowns are doctors with grant money, right? And you wonder why us internet docs have no respect for you anal-obsessed “real” docs. Man. Get an editor.

How do you approach a website that lists an item as, ”U.S. G.I. Innertube FUN, FUN, FUN !!!”. The site has an incredible array of stuff, and I have been to their location. Good stock, good prices. But, “FUN, FUN, FUN”? The superlatives may be more apt when describing a Finnish Gas Mask (“Yaw, I smell dat, too”), an M-856 Projectile (“INCOMING!!”), a Dutch Military Geiger Counter (“Read the meter, Private, what’s it say?” “It says, ‘We’re fucked,’ Sir”), or even a Dummy Pineapple Grenade (“Pull the ring and threaten gramma! Loads of fun at every party!!”), but an innertube? Naw.

All done.

just yappin'

I’m surfing the net without a filter for the first time in a long while. A post or two below I mention and link to the Life in Israel blog. He’s got a long blogroll bottom right. I am cruising through those sites.

What I find remarkable is the anti-Bush stuff out there. People are so into the moment in front of them. It’s as is they have zero recollection of past realities, and equal knowledge of history.

Remember when Clinton tried to mastermind some military moves, and they went poorly? Did he say, “I could have done better?” No. He blamed specific junior officers and made them hold press conferences to confess their personal ineptitudes. How humiliating. Even if it were accurate, my god, you take responsibility publicly and reprimand privately. How classless. Let’s not even address the type of person it takes to accept blowjobs from interns, and then lie under oath about it.

Remember how they rode Reagan as being stupid? Gee, now they look to him as one of the greatest presidents.

Remember how Carter deftly brought the economy in for a crash landing?

Remember how Kennedy dabbled in Vietnam, Johnson took us in full bore, and Nixon got us out?

Gee, remember how Saddam killed thousands of Kurds with chemical weapons, and how his boys raped and pillaged the countryside? How he had his political opponents killed?

Why is there no perspective these days? Are people that malleable, that vacant? Do people understand that the “rich” give them jobs, and that the government is an ever-present drag on economic growth? That the deduction on your paycheck is what pays for all the government programs – including Nancy Pelosi’s government aircraft that she insisted upon so she wouldn’t have to fly coach like us vermin because she is so very important? That teachers’ unions have destroyed the public-education system? That Algore has an agenda which is not the betterment of man but the betterment of Al? Geez – even the Clintons hate him! That should tell you something.

I don’t like all the policies of President Bush. I don’t like all the anything of anyone, including myself. But I will say this – I find it more instructive of the speaker than the target when someone suggests that a man that was elected twice to the governorship and the presidency is stupid. No one rises to such heights filling an empty suit. No one. Nobody’s daddy can ensure anything so deeply public. Get a grip on reality. Remember the scene in Forrest Gump when Jenny’s boyfriend slaps her hard in the Black Panther apartment? He later blamed “that lying Johnson” for his own lack of control that resulted in him hitting a woman. Wow. Just frickin’ wow.

What do you need in life? A grocery store – that’s a good thing. A fully stocked grocery store. Ever see how well the Soviet government ran them? Are our grocery stores run by the government? How come North Korea cannot feed its people? A good hospital is needed. How come people come from all over the world to use ours? Where is all the aid going in Africa? Not to the people that need it. How come the best health care in England is in the private – non-government – side? How come Blue Cross/Blue Shield will pay for your cancer treatment but the English government denies the request because it thinks there is not a high enough likelihood for survival?

Show me a single instance of greater government involvement resulting in a more efficient system. There are none. Governments exist for the common defense. Anything beyond that is intrusive and comes at the expense of growth – including building roads. You realize, don’t you, that the tax you pay on gasoline is no different than the tolls you would pay on private roads? Government creates nothing. They take and redistribute – yet private charities do a better job of that with a fraction of the overhead.

People who view government as the answer to anything need an economics course – for the first time or again.

People who think some politician is the answer to anything had better review both the question and the optional answers.

happy thanksgiving from the palestinian authority

I frequent life is israel several times a week. The link is to a specific post, but just click his header for the main page.

What I find amazing is the bald-face lying of the Arab community. "What? Us? We are peace-loving, PBUH, yadda yadda, yadda." They are actively at war. Period, end of story. Any liberal simpleton that tries to suggest otherwise is not merely an enabler, they are a co-conspirator. There is no desire within the Arab community to resolve anything in Palestine. Letting them rot keeps them angry - and the anger is directed towards Israel. Just think what the several HUNDRED millions dollars Yes-Sir Are-U-Fat possessed in his personal coffers could have "solved" if he hadn't stole it.

These people will continue to fight until they are killed one by one. Everyone knows they are fighting, but are unwilling to resolve it. Just look at the garbage Israel took because they built a wall. Stupid.

Want to see these clowns at war? Check out the video. Notice the truck driving by - there is open knowledge of these actions. The "I don't masturbate because Allah told me so" crowd is setting up rocket launchers to toss missiles into Israel. At least Sinn Fein had the decency to use the cover of night (mostly).

when can i masturabte?

There are just some things that you just cannot make up. I cut nothing below – full and complete. You have all the links.

J.W. from Canada writes, “As-Salamu `alaykum. I got married four months back. I am a Muslim and try to follow Islam to the best of my ability. During the time of my wife's period (which is usually seven days) I get sexually aroused a lot (she’s had like THREE periods, pal. Get a fricking grip – oh yeah, that’s what you are going to ask. Sorry, got ahead of myself.). I would like to know if, during this time, it is permissible for me to masturbate (smile)? If not, is there any other option?” (There’s the neighbor’s sheep, a mud hole, a rotting tree by a creek bed, your sister.)

Counselor Ahmad Kutty responds:

Wa `alaykum As-Salamu wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuh. (Same to you, pal.)

In the Name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.

All praise and thanks are due to Allah, and peace and blessings be upon His Messenger. (Yeah, yeah, yeah, cut to the chase.)

Dear brother in Islam, thank you so much for your concerns about your religion and Allah’s law even in what concerns your sexual life with your wife. (Gotcha. You get paid by the word, buddy? Talk!)

As for your question, it should be clear that masturbation is generally considered forbidden (except for the quite amazing exceptions noted at the end of this post) in Islam since it is deemed to fall under the category of sexual satisfaction outside the framework of marriage (don’t tell me that you’re about to say everything has to be with her, are you? Everything?). However, mutual masturbation between the man and his wife (here we go – so I can’t yank my pud, but she can? Where do I sign up? PBUH) is not haram; rather, it is permissible because it is a part of the enjoyment which Allah has allowed (nice guy, that Allah). Allah Almighty says: “Those who guard their chastity (i.e., private parts from illegal sexual acts). (why is there a period to the left and a capital E to the right? Your God seems to be a grammar retard.) Except from their wives or (the captives and slaves) (gotta love the fact subsumed in evidence, eh? It is perfectly fine to have captives and slaves. You people are bizarre.) that their right hands (I’m left handed; when I use my right hand it feels like someone else is doing it – is that ok?) possess,—for them, they are free from blame.” (Al-Mu’minun: 5-6)

In response to your question, Sheikh Ahmad Kutty, a senior lecturer and Islamic scholar at the Islamic Institute of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, states (oh, the above was like scripture, and now we get the sermon? I’m into it.):

“We are not allowed to engage in sexual intercourse with our wives during their menstrual period (why not? Give me a good reason. Name ONE. That’s why somebody invented soap and water.). However, there is no taboo on gaining sexual satisfaction from them through other ways (tell me more!). The Prophet (peace and blessings be upon him) (double that if he is going to elaborate on “other ways”) was once asked, “What is allowed for a husband from his wife during menstruation?” (Somebody asked him this? Where's that humungo thighed Mrs. Clinton & her Fabulous Question Planters when you need them? This dude is walking around like a fricking prophet and people asked him about banging their wives? You people hate Jews, but, c'mon, they had a bit more decorum with Jesus, right?) He replied, “Everything except sexual intercourse.” (I LOVE this guy – “everything”) Just as there is no taboo on intimate touching, fondling, caressing, et cetera, there is no prohibition on spouses masturbating each other, et cetera. (I think “et cetera” is Muslim for “yadda yadda yadda.” That Mohammed said that?!? That is so funny. The dude is walking around like he’s the Christ and talking about jacking off. So hip! Did he wear headphones and sunglasses? So, we already learned that she can take the yoyo for a walk. You mean I can just say, “This side’s bloody, flip it over”? That’s cool with you? So provided a slave isn’t available, I can just crank her up the ass and you have no problem with that? You people spent too much time in the desert with camels. Trust me on this one. I bet the etymology of “animal husbandry” is a bit further east than Greece or Rome.”)

Although you are not allowed to masturbate yourself, your wife can masturbate you without incurring any sin (You’re repeating yourself. On purpose? For emphasis? OK, ok. I’ll talk to her and said you said so. "Um, jerk me off, PBUH." That's all, right? I say that and we're cool?). So satisfy yourself through halal (lawful) (I thought "halal" was deep fried and served in a pita. Learn something new everyday.) ways; we have sufficiency in what Allah has made halal for us so that we do not need to turn to that which is considered as haram (unlawful).” (I thought "haram" was a bunch of chicks - or as you call them, "captives." Let’s summarize, she can yank it, I can flip her over, I could do a slave, I could kidnap somebody so I have a “captive.” I didn’t see any prohibition on her blowing me – I mean, “everything” is a pretty broad term. I can toe fuck her? Just can’t bang her. Got it. What an amazing religion to discuss such real issues. And you think we are too loose? Tell me, when I clip my toenails, right to left or left to right?)

Excepted, with slight modifications, from: www.muslims.ca

You can also read:

Islamic Ruling on Masturbation. Can I? Short answer: Yes (hunh? I thought you just said, no.), but only if you aren’t married (ah! So stay single and the sheep are safe.), if you think you really need to bang some married girl (so even if I am married, I can do it if that woman over there is driving me to the point of distraction. What an incredible religion you people have.), or if you are releasing sexual tension rather than achieving sexual desire (now, talk about wordsmithing. Tension not desire. Well, I get really tense sometimes – does that work? Hey, I’m tense, I took my Viagra and she’s late from work - yank yank yank. And that’s OK? Listen to me, boys, create a flow chart of your rules. See the spirals and feedbacks? There’s no flow (menstruation aside). Your rules are creating asshats. Settle down. Relax. Masturbate. Don’t be so uptight.).

My Husband Does Not Satisfy Me in Bed: Can I Masturbate? Short answer: No. So what if we Muslim men have short dicks and no sense of foreplay. Deal with it. (Figures. Always the guys with small dicks writing rules telling women to “deal with it.” How about this, bub – pull your own pud, I can’t find it! The coke bottle and tweezers must be in the slave’s room.)

If you are still in need of more information, don't hesitate to contact us. Do keep in touch. May Allah guide us all to the straight path! (Yeah, ok.)

Allah Almighty knows best. (I am speechless.)

sea swells and storms

Times change with little control by us. Split milk, toothpaste out of the tube, water under the bridge or over the dam. The at-once beautiful and frightening aspect of time is that it only moves from left to right. Once an event occurs or words are shared, it becomes a part of history that cannot be undone or erased. At best, one tries to say, “I didn’t expect that,” or “I didn’t want that to happen.” A careful examination of the record, not always possible but many times is (at least in important part), makes it all too clear that the event was inevitable, even invited. Protestations to the contrary rise (or lower) to the level of being humorous. What is sorely lacking is honesty: “Yes, that is what I expected, it is what I invited, and, when it came, I was a little taken back, but I am back on track on now. Yes, that is what I want.”

Is that so hard?

A remarkable thing about humans is our ability to adapt to new circumstances. We have a strong need to socialize (remember the Russia experiment (or was it Hitler’s gang?) to raise kids without social interaction – they all died young), so our difference is not just opposable thumbs. But today’s society gives us an incredible array of social outlets. My situation is a good example on a few fronts: I work at home and my teenagers are home-schooled. Take away the internet, add a few cows and chickens, and we could be reading at night by oil lamp in the 1840s wilds of somewhere west of the Mississippi and east of Sacramento. I leave the house almost not at all, aside from two or three business trips a months. I have little need or desire for new outlets. In fact, and I believe I wrote this before, unlike other periods in my life, this one has no feeling of an end. If my job changes to having to show up someplace everyday, I will be truly disappointed. I will adapt, but only because I can and, apparently, must.

So with new circumstances comes adaptation. Intellectual and emotional adaptation is very similar to me to a card game, perhaps 7-card Stud. As time goes on, the majority of the cards of the other players’ (not “opponents,” just other players) become known. There are no good or bad cards – they are just hardened paper with symbols. It is unfair of me, for example, to place my forearm over my up-turned cards. Mine are to be as visible as yours. With four cards out of six visible towards the end game, there is little need to bullshit one another. Inside straights are hard to hit. In fact, this is where the analogy falters, because it is not gambling with stakes to be won or lost – it is just information to be shared. Yes, personal information that belongs to one person as much as their own poker hand does, but when that personal information if shared would help the other to adapt, then play fair: keep your forearm off the table.

I’m one of those people that identify with an un-tethered bobber cast into the ocean. I have ridden swells to great heights, and have been consumed by countless waves. Somehow or another, I never sink completely (been close!). Calm waters always find me. I also know that I am the bobber and am not the water beneath. Whether it be God’s hands or another person (God-driven or not), it is not me in charge.

This perspective drives me to want information. If I cannot be control – and I never can be nor do I want to be (that’s a young adult’s fantasy) – then allow me the information to know about tomorrow’s sea conditions. That is all I ask. I adapt. I survive both the swell and the storm. Just share with me what you learned about the coming conditions.

Is that so hard?

thanksgiving, part two – remembrances

I have a hard distinguishing my earliest Thanksgiving meals from Christmas-Day meals. The menus were always the same – turkey, stuffing (in and out of the bird), mashed potatoes, jellied cranberries with the indent of the can molded into them, canned corn or peas, applesauce, and gravy. There may have things like sweet potatoes, but I don’t remember because I didn’t eat them.

From my earliest days, I always sat at my father’s left hand. Not sure why that started, but it never deviated up to our last meal together about five years.

I remember enjoying dark meat more than light, probably because kids like juicier hunks of flesh that was subjected to high temperatures to interrupt the decaying process. My last course at every meal was an island of mashed potatoes into which I would create a huge hole. The hole would be filled with corn or peas, then applesauce, and finally gravy.

My father shared a secret with me one time when I came home from college. It was the first time that I cut the turkey (which I did every year thereafter until he died). On the underside of the turkey (and all fowl) is two pockets of meat, set in as if they are tiny breasts. It is the moistest, sweetest meat on the entire bird. I stopped eating meat about 20 years ago, and have cheated only twice – both times to take a nibble of this underside meat.

I don’t remember the last meal with my father’s family. I haven’t seen any of them for five years, and all forty-some years of it, from holidays to social time, is reduced to two or three still photographs that lack affect, depth, or voice.

I view holiday meals with just my family differently than I viewed just meals as a child. They are more functional following a full day of cooking alone, and a moment of respite from the pressures of daily life – as if a several-hour ceasefire has been declared. I think it was probably very similar for my father.

This year marks the first time that the kids that live here – biological and in loco parentis – will have Others with them. My daughter is the exception. She’s a mountain range of individuality, and is probably clueless of the depth of personality and strength she possesses. So there will be seven here at some time or another. Meatless turkey, apple and cranberry stuffing, and the rest of the usual suspects. My boy is with his Other now making pies. He has found his first real second family. It’s the start of the period when he’ll compare me to other fathers and find me lacking. At the other end of this period, be it five or twenty years, he’ll see me as person for the first time. Should be interesting.

No more.

thanksgiving, part one: honesty

Thanksgiving, a time to kill domesticated animals en masse, to demonstrate to ourselves that we can throw away more food in a day than many people around the world see in a month, and to become familiar with the combined deleterious effects of tryptophan and alcohol poisoning. Combine all of this with sharing a table with people you did not choose as friends but know through the accident of birth, and you have the makings for a day to be remembered for years. December 7, 1941, is also a day remembered for years.

That Holly Hunter movie, Home for the Holidays, accurately depicts most Thanksgivings. There is always an undercurrent of ultimate devotion, albeit like a dog is devoted to his owner through a leash, but devotion none the less. The truer aspect is that when choices were available through the preceding months, they were consistently exercised to stay away from these people. Yes, there are generational bonds that sometimes transcend closed doors and burned hearts – but, truthfully, those relationships are compromised because of their (necessary) blind devotion to their children. Want to see true generational relations? Watch grandparents with adult grandchildren.

Do holidays bring families together? Yes. So do funerals and other calamities in life. Some of us gravitate towards family because there is supposedly this unbreakable bound, some underlying level of trust that means no matter the issue, no matter the real or perceived red letter there will allows be an open door. Then some red letter does come to be attached, and sometimes those families ostracize. Then the true meaning of holidays becomes known.

Holidays are for reminding one another of bonds present, nor bonds past. Holidays future may have different bonds than today. Holidays are funerals only for the turkey, and dead bonds should not be honored. In fact, it is a dishonor to relationships that no longer hold love or respect to be presented across a table as if those things still existed. It is a time to look at a dying relationship and recognize it for what it once it was and what it presently is, not to galvanize either the present or future. If it was vibrant yesterday and dying today, it will be dead tomorrow. Enjoy the last vestiges, the life’s breath that is fading. Use the time to stop the grinding, yes, but do not share false love. That is insulting to an honest memory.

In the manner Holidays are celebrated, it is somehow fitting to kill an animal and make it pretty for the table, to tear into the cooked flesh, and consume it with gusto. But you walk away from the table, the bones remain there. Perhaps some chunks of meat go into a bag for you to consume later. Do not do all the disservice of taking the bones with you. Dead animals, dead or dying relations: recognize them for what they are; do not exhibit false sincerity. Leave it at the table. Better yet, eat somewhere else. The food will taste better.

Trip Points

I got issues. Funny, eh? Three words that set the tone. Some things are instant piss-me-off-no-matter-what-the-current-mood issues.

Broadcasting political votes. I was on some web site off the Blog Carnivals site. The post was something – forget now. But a few posts down he writes that he just voted in the local city council elections, and then proceeds to name for whom he voted. A friend of mine said once, when asked for whom he voted in a recent presidential election, “One of the beautiful things about America is that not only can we vote for our leaders, but we don’t have to tell anyone for whom we voted.” I thought the statement was elegant.

I think that people that broadcast their votes are idiots. Talk about issues all you want. Make your position on abortion or baby seals or rain forests known all you want. But to consider that some politician, who by definition sells their soul to the highest bidder, is actually an answer is incredibly naïve. They are as complex and contradictory and evolving as any other person. You work on a campaign and have sold your soul, too, then your opinion doesn’t matter.

Vote if you want to, but shut-up about it.

Stupid people that don’t know they are stupid. I cannot fathom these people. The layer that always comes with it – and it is this portion that trips me – is the arrogance. We all have limitations, physical or intellectual or spiritual or whatever. The trick in life is to know your limitations. I cannot deconstruct music. I can’t choose clothes that go together without picturing those garanimal tags. I can figure out a lot of stuff just in my mind, such as numbers, some physics, law. Other things I can conceptualize but cannot execute well until I do it and screw up – the second time is always better with household repairs, car repairs, etc. I get there; it’s just a matter of being patient with myself.

So then you get people who are convinced of their intellectual superiority. They have the world by the balls. Then they do something stupid, and other people are materially changed through their arrogance which is followed by lies. Then you talk to them to try to understand, and they sputter, and lie more. Then the arrogance comes into full bloom like a rancid flower next to a thick green pond. Then the fake supplication. Then the continued fake supplication – and words mean nothing, only actions. So watch carefully, and you see the continued stupidity. And what pisses me off (yes, I am referring to a very specific situation in my life right now) is the continued collateral damage of which the person is too stupid to see. Telling them is pointless. I work incredibly hard not to turn full barrel and leave behind a charred hole. Humorously, the cranially vacant one thinks I already have. It is to laugh ruefully.

Liars. I detest liars on every level. I never forgive (that’s not a problem, is it?) and always filter every subsequent transaction for decades through those putrid waters. Ironically, I act spitefully, lying, too. I dwell in the brackish waters. I never trust again. Never. If you lie to me, then they are no longer any rules. Yes, the foundational lie needs to be fundamental. But once that floor has been compromised, the hole created is as if a claw-foot tub dropped through it from an upper floor, followed by my specious carpentry skills. The hole is, at best, repaired with a jumble of boards, overlapping haphazardly with darkness appearing through the many gaps. One cannot walk past the hole without consciously avoiding the space or tripping over a jutted-out board; to walk on those same boards is folly for now and evermore. I gather information slowly and patiently for years if necessary. I suspect the worst in every transaction, particularly when older paths are tread again. It is, perhaps, a deep character flaw in me. It is, equally, something I will never devote even a micron of effort to resolve. Never lie to me. I will never forgive you. Not in the ensuing hours, days, or decades. Until the day I die, I will never believe you, and will always assume the very worst in you. Always and, as they say, in all ways. The seed of distrust spawns a seed of hate. Regardless of subsequent interactions, those seeds are cherished and nurtured by me. Always and in all ways. It will never change, and I will gladly die a lonely and miserable death to maintain my own variant of arrogance. It requires no effort on my part – that’s the humorous aspect. It simply is as it is, like a drawing with a crooked line: drawings are not changed, merely observed; I am not the artist, just the patron; the artist’s portfolio will always contain that drawing, whether they claim it to be destroyed or not – it was within them at one time, and will always reside as a part of their talent set. Always and in all ways.

Loudmouth anything. Guess what? Illegal aliens are here illegally. They have violated the law the same as a thief. People die in wars. When folks join the military, they do so knowing and accepting the risks in return for remuneration – be it cash in hand, educational benefits, or lifelong healthcare. They are in a war theatre because they offered to go there and were trained to be there. You support the military – as long as they are not doing what they are trained to do? An abortion is either murder or the cessation of the autonomous subdivision of a mass of cells. I have my opinions; you are encouraged to have yours. Mine are informed to the level that is comfortable for me; I hope yours are the same. Mine are not printed on a sign that is carried in public, nor screamed at passersby, nor is my body interfering with the stream of commerce to get my point heard. I do not need your sign, voice, or body telling what your opinion is. I just don’t care. I bailed on news reporting because all they cover are idiots like you. It may be just my concentric world, but I have observed a direct and negative-slope relationship between your {ahem} “forceful” presence and your intelligence. Just – shut – up, and keep your face out of my face, your body off the bridge I am crossing (unless you’re a jumper), and your poor grammar to your home-bound scribblings. Don’t even get me started on actors and actresses that have a proclivity to memorize words written by someone else and to delivery those words with a proper range of affect provided someone is off-camera telling them what to do and, based upon the sharing of copyright royalties, think that somehow they possess opinions worthy of educating the masses. The only reason that they are not complete assholes is because there are obviously a few missing pieces. And this includes rock musicians, too. You made your money in music. We never paid you to tell us what you thought. So now that you don’t need our money any more doesn’t give you the right to use the stage we paid for to voice your opinion. Get out the guitar and perform, monkey boy – the rest is of no interest and just makes you look stupid.

Liars. Did I mention liars? Lemme check … oh yes, I did. Well, double it.

Sportcasters. How many times can they misapply the word “brilliant”? Look, pal, these athletes practice a lot. What they do on the field is muscle memory, with the rare exception of some quarterbacks and pitchers – but even they are mostly muscles remembering previous motions. It is all trained auto-pilot. Brilliant? Ever hear them talk? You associate “brilliance” with that? They make rap stars sound like accountants. I love sports, so I ordinarily mute the telecast and listen to music or silence. The overwhelming majority of athletes would be in prison if they didn’t meet the “physical freak” criteria. Most retired guys sell insurance or cars. Brilliant? C’mon. Just shut up and call the plays as they happen. And the very worst thing these clowns do is point out “celebrities” in the audience. Just frigging shoot me.

The list can go on … gonna bail for now. Probably to be continued …

Yep. That’s what it means to be a dad.

Was in Philadelphia’s Electric Factory Thursday afternoon and night into Friday morning. Stood in line for three hours to see Avenged Sevenfold. Yep. Froze my ass off. The concert was done about midnight. Stayed until 2:30 AM for signatures and pics. Yep. Got home at 4:30 AM, and was up for work the next morning. Yep. Still trying to find my internal clock. Yep. That’s what it means to be a dad.

I was the oldest person in line by a mean count in decades. About three of us were not dressed in black. I saw more metal piercing faces than a shrapnel event in wartime. I learned several new variants of the word “fuck” that I had not thought of before – so that was good. Always nice to increase one’s knowledge of the Urban Dictionary. Yep. That’s what it means to be a dad.

We began the night next to steel railings about three people deep from front stage left. Lasted the first band. During the ensuing set-up, we had to be rescued by security to minimize the crush injuries, albeit not before I took several kidney shots and elbows to the head. My left shoulder is better; thanks for asking. Neck still cranky a bit – should be gone by Thanksgiving. But I had my daughter well-protected as I boxed her in by holding the rail and keeping a foot high up on the side of it. Yep. That’s what it means to be a dad.

The first band, Black Tide, has a bassist, Zakk (the far right guy in the group pic), that was overtly hitting on these two girls up front – to the point where he invited them to meet him afterward – invited them live on mic, gave them water and picks … it was rather humorous. I have my private thoughts about such audience members. The thoughts ain’t pretty.

The band was good, though. It is simply out of my generation. I don’t get the purpose of singing if the mixing board allows every instrument to drown out the lyrics, but that seems consistent in music these days. God forbid there be a story buried in the song somewhere. I can’t really comment critically one way or another on musicians, but I will say that the bassist had was a dominant stage presence in both personality and his playing. So I guess that’s a good thing.

The second band, The Confession, had this lead singer doing a J. Giles impersonation. I found it humorous, but it was probably lost on the audience who were, collectively, born when J. was doing golden oldies tours. They were good, but I thought the first band had more raw talent.

The third band, Operator, was, I guess, good, but they seemed to me to be working hard at being actors fulfilling a role. My daughter said later that the lead guitarist was a direct rip-off of __________. I didn’t catch the name; my hearing was pretty well shot in spite of 29dB plugs. Her statement supported my unspoken conclusions. Seems to me that they are probably good at what they do, but need to rewrite the script – be yourself. Not someone else, not something new, not something different – just yourself. And if you don’t know who you are, then put the instruments away for a month or two. Atlantic Records will understand. Play some Hank Williams, Jr. Stop eating red meat. Just shut up for a while. You might be amazed at who you actually are. You know, before your last song you said something about wanting the crowd to be “really warmed up.” Sons, if you need to tell them … duh, eh? Just do it. And no, your song didn’t. It was just more instruments and less vocals. You should talk with a real band and learn about crowd control. Hell, Black Tide was more dominant on stage than you guys. Stop acting, will you?

So then the headliner boys come out. By this time, the floor has worked itself into a seething mass of sweat and metal. The pushing continued as I watched from a safe distance. The floor looked like a sea with swells that frequently would spit out a body and toss it towards the front. Kids these days call that “body surfing.” Logic? If I want strangers grabbing my ass there will be a Tip Jar.

So A7X comes out. The crowd goes appropriately ballistic as it plays, “Name that tune?” and always bids and wins with one note. The singer begins, “ARRRR URGRGRG FFFFF SAGAWHATKA” or something like that all in a guttural dialect retrieved from the dumpster behind George Lucas’ house when he was trying to figure out primitive space dialects in the early draft scripts of Star Wars. The crowd sang every utterance in time.

They also did one thing that I thought showed a lot of stage maturity. Although they clearly had their individual preference – lead guitar, stage left, for example (right in front of my daughter, thank you) – all of the front guys took extensive time on all sides of the stage, giving more fans up close and personal time. Smart, and, for some odd reason, uncommon.

Again, although the music is simply beyond my ability to comprehend, I will give them credit – they are talented, particularly the lead guitarist, Synyster Gates. Even more importantly, they seem to surround themselves with family and friends – the concession was run by the twin brother of a roadie. That’s smart to limit variables. They also may have taken a long time to meet fans afterwards – two fricking hours for most of them – but when they did, they were polite and cooperative and patient. The lead singer is going to burn out, that is plain as day, but the rest of the band should have long careers provided they don’t play the drug world too hard. I have no idea if they are even dabbling in it … just history can be a great teacher. If they had the time to absorb the venue’s history that would be clear – Jimi Hendrix and Jerry Garcia for starters.

It was an interesting time. Stressful on my aging body. My daughter was at the stage for her favorite band. She got pics with them afterward. She got a bunch of great memories to associate with her fading dad. It was well worth it. Yep. That’s what it means to be a dad.

the doctor is in 5

just learned something about odiogo audio - i need to use different titles. it associated this post with an older one. so i am deleting and reposting. will use doctor is in 5 ... then 6 ...

Today we are presented with a 68 year-old. We’ll get to his story in a few. First, the pics …


Oh my! Looks like the dude swallowed somebody’s scrotum! That’s gross. I mean, nuts still wrapped up like a couple mini-pillows just-for-to-sleep-on-honey-oh-no-thank-you! seem to be lodged in this guy’s throat. Wanna have some fun? Take your browser slider and move it up and down a bit – the old chin strap seems to move around as if it were riding free in a pair of Levi’s and we are frolicking in a meadow feeling free and pretty like those girls that wear panti-liners. Hey, wait a sec … look at that kinda sorta line of white under the scrotal package. Odd. Wonder what it is. Better look at the next pic.


AAHH!! AAAHHHH!!!! AAHHH!!! NO!!! SAY IT ISN’T SO!!! AAAHHHHH!!!! IT IS!!! The dude SWALLOWED somebody’s DICK!! AHHH!! AAAAHHHHH!!! NNOOOOO!!!!! AND IT WAS STILL PUMPING THE LOVE JUICE!!! IT’S RIGHT THERE! LJ’S STILL DRIPPING!! IT’S IN HIM. NOO!!! AAAHHHH!!!!!

This boy better have a good story. Ain’t never no reason no-how to go chomping down on the spanker, and in particular … AAHH!! AAAHHHH!!!! THE DUDE HAD HIS LOVE PUMP LOVING IN SOME OTHER DUDE’S MOUTH AND GOT BIT BIG TIME! AAHH!! AAAHHHH!!!! And then this low-down geriatric sexual purveyor of “Dick: The Other White Meat” couldn’t stop there – he had to take the lil buddies, too? Damn, man, what is you thinking?

You better have a DAMN fine story, or I am going toss HIPAA right out that window, track down your sorry ass, and perform a stomach stapling without anesthesia. You won’t eat another thing, son, for the rest of your days. You done had your last meal!

Alright – cough, I want the story. I’m listening.

BACKGROUND

A 68-year-old (sixty-eight, 68! You should know better, son! Ain’t your dick still attached? You like it there? You tinkle on a regular basis? What is wrong with you?), previously healthy white man (I knew he was white, just by viewing the crime scene – I knew it. Yeah, “previously healthy” until you started chomping. I oughta kick your ass right through this cyber-diagnosis) presents to his primary care physician’s office with a complaint of 2 years of progressive dysphagia (Two years, my ass! That dick still dripping momma’s milk! You lie so bad). He reports that he has lost about 15-20 lb and that he is not following any diet or regimen to lose weight (unsafe sexual practices can lead to weight lose, too, grampaw. I don’t see no rubber on that rascal. You surfing bareback. Why you surprised you losing weight? Probably fit into a size 9 cocktail dress now, don’t you?). Although he can drink liquids without difficulty, he has lately felt a “sticky sensation” in the middle of his throat (it’s still dripping – can’t you people see that? Of course it’s sticky! It’s gots to stick to the egg – it’s designed that way! HEY – THE DUDE BIT OFF AND SWALLOWED SOMEBODY’S DICK THEN WENT AFTER THE MUD FLAP! YEAH – STICKY – SURPRISED? You want to know what is even more sticky? When the now-flapless-and-dickless partner goes home to his WIFE and has to EXPLAIN where his DICK went – and STILL is!) when he eats any solid food (I think our friend has had enough solid food for one lifetime). He also regurgitates food particles from a particular meal for up to 2 days after he has eaten it (I am positive this is true. Yes, whatever he eats comes back up. Yes. I have no problem believing this).

On physical examination, the patient’s vital signs are within the normal range. The examination of the oropharynx yields unremarkable findings. The patient has no neck mass or other abnormality. Examination of the thorax and the abdomen also yield unremarkable results. (Blah, blah blah. The formerly attached dick lost its erection. You would, too, with a good bite-down. So of course you don’t feel anything in there. It’s sticky – but soft.)

HINT
Observe the saclike structure in the esophagus. (Scrotal fun buns, dick. Saw them. Thanks.)

ANSWER
Zenker (so that’s his name. Better write that down. I can find him. No problem. I’ll do the Whistle Test. Little known fact: Dicks lodged in throats prevent whistling. Something about the way air moves in the diaphragm. I’ll find every 68 year-old Zenker in America and make them whistle. When one can’t – I’ll have my man!) (pharyngoesophageal) diverticulum: The frontal (see Image 1) and lateral (see Image 2) barium-swallow images of the upper esophagus demonstrate a large outpouching (what a great medical term, “outpouching.” I prefer “lodged spanker.”) at the posterior aspect of the pharyngoesophageal junction that retains barium (arrows) (I think “barium” is code for “seminal fluid”). This finding is consistent with a Zenker diverticulum (Latin for “pervert.” Zenker, Pervert. Now I have a complete name. This dude is so toast).

A Zenker diverticulum, also called a pharyngoesophageal diverticulum, is a pseudodiverticulum (note, “pseudo” – this answer is full of code only us internet docs can read) consisting of esophageal mucosa and submucosa (read, “seminal fluid”) that herniate (“the buddies”) posteriorly between the cricopharyngeus and the inferior pharyngeal constrictor muscles (like a pirate map to show you where to find your nuts if your wife said, “go back and get them! And don’t return until you do!”) and through an area of potential weakness referred to as the Killian dehiscence (the first clue as to the victim’s identity – a Mr. Killian). The pathogenesis of this condition is not well known (this means that they don’t have much information on Mr. Killian – must have been a chance encounter in a bar, mayeb a glory hole). Patients with a Zenker diverticulum are thought to have a discoordination of the swallowing mechanism that increases pressure on the mucosa of the pharynx (this “discoordination” means that he didn’t want to bite the guy’s dick off – but got the “mucosa” thing happening, which means he did bite the guy’s dick off). Over time, this pressure leads to herniation of the esophageal mucosa through the Killian dehiscence (“Over time … herniation” – Mr. P. Zenker bite off the dick of one Mr. Killian, and then bit off and removed the remainder of the male package).

The condition occurs most commonly in elderly women (this should come as no surprise), with peak incidence in the seventh to ninth decades of life (OK, good information. No wonder older men tend to be so quiet – fear of being Zenkered). The most common presenting feature in a Zenker diverticulum is upper-esophageal dysphagia, which occurs in as many as 98% of patients (this means that the dick get lodged pretty high up). Other common symptoms are halitosis (you’ve got a dick in your throat, probably been there for days – of course your breath stinks), regurgitation of undigested food, aspiration, noisy deglutition, and changes in voice (eg, hoarseness) (yeah, what about the change in voice in the bitee?). Weight loss, possibly resulting from limited caloric intake (tough to get calories around that thing in your throat, eh, grammaw?) and recurrent pulmonary infection from aspiration, occurs in approximately one third of patients.

(Blah, blah, blah. Read the rest of the pseudo-answer if you like. Here’s the bottom line. Diagnosis: Dick and Scotty lodged in throat. Recommended treatment: Shoot him right between the legs, then between the eyes. Put his crime on prune juice containers for all prospective criminals to see – face, facts, final disposition – under the caption, “Don’t be a Zenker!”)

In patients with a Zenker diverticulum, the physical findings are usually normal. Fluoroscopic barium-swallow studies are the mainstay of diagnosis and demonstrate the characteristic outpouching that arises from the midline of the posterior wall of the distal pharynx near the pharyngoesophageal junction. This finding is best identified during swallowing, and it is typically seen on lateral images, on which the diverticulum is observed at the C5-C6 vertebral level. If the diverticulum is large, it may protrude laterally, most often to the left side. After the bolus of contrast agent passes the upper esophagus, the diverticulum is typically seen extending posterior to the cricopharyngeus muscle, and the contrast material that was retained in the diverticulum may be regurgitated into the hypopharynx. The lumen of the diverticulum should be carefully observed for irregularities or filling defects because squamous cell carcinoma can develop in a small percentage of cases.

When incidentally imaged on computed tomography (CT) scans or magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) scans, a Zenker diverticulum appears as a structure that arises posteriorly from the hypopharynx and is filled with air, fluid, or oral contrast material. Zenker diverticula may also be found on endoscopy. Care must be taken during endoscopic procedures, because passage of the endoscope into the diverticulum may result in perforation.

Small, asymptomatic diverticula may be followed up by monitoring the progression of symptoms. Surgical management should be considered in patients with clinically significant dysphagia, weight loss, pulmonary aspiration with recurrent lung infections, and complications related to bleeding. Surgical options for treatment include myotomy of the cricopharyngeus muscle, with or without diverticulopexy, and endoscopic division of diverticular wall with stapling. The success rate (ie, the relief of symptoms as measured in most studies) is approximately 93%.

evolving dogs and offspring

My Moment of Zen turned rapidly from calming to something different. I was watching my dog lazily walk along the fence, sniffing for remnants of summer, when he humped up and grunted out a dump. Now, another person might find such an act to utterly lack inspiration. Instead, I wonder … if we humans are so evolved, how come we need to wipe our ass? The dog doesn’t. If I don’t, it gets personal real quick, both for me and most around me (except for the olfactory challenged). The chaffing can last for days. Do people with hairy asses chaff less? Is there research out there? How much hair is enough to significantly alter chaffing? Can we derive a formula and use hair plugs?

But wait, it can’t be just the presence of hair, it has to be the make-up of the material being passed, too. There’s a real evolution v. creation argument here. Did our ancestors develop a colon that required Charmin because it knew we would invent it, and bunny rabbits do these little pellets because its colon knew Charmin would never be? That is clearly a creationist view. If cavemen had to wipe to their ass else they got chaffed, one would think the body would evolve into a non-chaff producing form, but it did not. In fact, if cavemen had the intensely hairy asses that the pictures claim, then as the hair evolved away, so the dump material should have become less chaff producing. There is a huge disconnect in the evolutionary theory here. Do monkeys wipe there ass?

OK, back to my dogs. It’s odd – I got used to my female dog, then the male dog showed up. The female is so, well, female. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her rip one. She must leave the room or do some seat shift so she can defuse the sound wave. The male dog could not care less. Scared me, actually, the first time he let loose. The hair on the back of my head stood straight. My dad’s been dead five years or so – I really thought I was going to hear, “get any on you?” in that voice and facial expression he reserved for such statements. The dog burps, too. I don’t get it.

I can’t get this evolutionary contradiction out of my mind. What else is out there? How come I have to pick my nose and produce ear wax like I’m constructing honeycombs for the winter supply of food? Did Cro-Magnon Clyde say, “Q-Tips and Kleenex on the horizon – just another couple million years. Let’s focus on standing erect and developing speech?” It all seems so implausible. At this stage of development, I should be dumping out sand or something, with the rest being recycled somehow. My ears should be pretty, not some mess of yellow-orange gook with hairs growing in all different directions. Snot should not be so gross – or so salty when you eat it. That could be sand, too – you could sneeze and say, “get any on you?”

Just think, if everything we expelled from out of our body were like sand, we could have beaches instead of landfills. You could save not just your kid’s first teeth – but there first excrement, too. You could make family sand castles. Isn’t glass made from sand?

Evolution is stupid. Not very well thought through.

Here’s another google hack to find mp3’s … {-inurl:(htm|html|php) intitle:"index of" +"last modified" +"parent directory" +description +size +(wma|mp3) "hank williams"}. In the last quotes, where I have hank williams, you put in the target of your search. Works good. Remember, right click – Save Target As – and be sure it comes back as an mp3. If it does, save it and enjoy.

One more hack, seems more simple, but what would I know. I did get more hits with it … -inurl:htm -inurl:html intitle:"index of" mp3 "hank williams"

I don’t actually use these google hacks to download music, mind you. I think that would be infringing on someone’s copyright somewhere. That would not be good. I just use them to remind myself of how open the net is, and sometimes I think about trying to figure out how to write the site owners to tell them that their stuff is not secure. Sometimes, too, I go into the parent directory and down into another subdirectory and explore the … I, um, I … nevermind.

I didn’t know Hank Jr. had a box collection out. Very cool. I wonder if it’s the Bocephus Box. $35 on Amazon. Hunh. That’s a lot of money. Hunh.

I grew up listening to his dad. Listened all the time. When Jr. came along, I accepted his music without question. He did have to prove himself, however, which he did from the start. Quite unlike Sean Lennon. I’ve got two CDs by Sean. Listened to one of them one time; the second has never been opened.

Jr. is good. You have to like the solid country foundation. I don’t know much about that MNF bit he sings – that is just commercial crap made for the manufacturers of happy. But listen to All My Rowdy Friends Have Settled Down or Family Tradition or A Country Boy Can Survive. Just classics both in lyrics and music. There not too many videos released by him on you tube, but some, plus some decent concert footage.

I’m gonna do something else. Later.

reality bumper stickers

cosmic dancer

I was looking up at the sky and idly thinking what would happen if, say, some space-originated hunk of iron (with a typical density of, say, 8000 kg/m3) with a diameter of something like 100 meters, crossed into the atmosphere at, like, a 45 degree angle at a speed of roughly 50 miles/second, and then slammed into some sedimentary rock (with a density of something like 2500 kg/m3) about ten miles or so from where I sit. Would I be safe?

When in doubt, go to the internet. It just so happens that there is a Earth Impact Effects Program just waiting for your variable inputs – and mine!

If you just want the math behind the results, go here. Otherwise, read on – looks like I’ll be ok. Maybe. Wait, no. I think. Not sure. Sounds bad, actually.

First, there is some garbage about, “Energy before atmospheric entry” being 1.36 x 1019 Joules = 3.24 x 103 MegaTons TNT. I could not care less what happened before entry. I want to know about the impact on my ass where it sits – and I may not be a math or science or space guy, but I do know that energy before entry won’t blow down my walls.

We next learn that one of these things will slam into whatever I said it slammed into about once in every 56,000 years. That is not comforting. I checked the records. Ain’t nothing hit about ten miles up the road in the last 56,000 years. I know the probability is calculated as “average interval between impacts of this size somewhere on Earth,” but that is stupid – how am I supposed to figure that out? If it ain’t local, it didn’t happen – a true Appalachian attitude. Got a problem with that? Wanna squeal like a pig? Here piggy, piggy! So adjust the 1:56,000 for the proportion of the Earth’s surface up the road those ten miles. Something-a-helluva-lot-bigger-than-56,000 – still didn’t happen. So there.

There is a spot of good news in that the thing that’s gonna hit will start to break up about 128,000 feet away. That’s like over by Hazleton, a couple two three miles away. No problem. That’s the town that hates illegals. Good thing Jerry Farewell is dead else he’d be screaming, “God’s revenge!” That’s the guy that whacked off in front of prostitutes, right? Bet he’s already bought his season pass to the porn drive-in in Hell. All forty foot penises and sweaty asses – he forgot all about Heaven by the second half of the first double feature. He’s hooked up with some sleazy pharmacist already and is popping Viagra like they’re Tic Tacs. “If your erection lasts more than four hours, seek prompt medical attention”? Hell, no – he’ll be counting on it! Probably trying to negotiate a lifetime movie pass for him and his 12-year-old, um, son (that boy over there in the dress and pink bow – the one that knows the true meaning of Hell).

Here’s the best news. The resulting complex crater will have a transient diameter of 2.83 miles with a depth of one mile, and a final diameter of 3.47 miles and depth of 0.309 miles. With a decent rainy season, I may have another fishing spot pretty close. The volume of the target melted or vaporized is 0.0159 miles, and roughly half the melt remains in the crater, where its average thickness is 13.3 feet. Fishing may not be too good for a millennium or so until the iron content fades, but I’m patient. Also, tain’t no hole close to ten miles. I could not care less what happens over there.

So what do we see? Visible fireball radius of 2.71 miles, with the fireball appearing 61.6 times larger than the sun. We’ll see it for 56.9 seconds. That’s long enough to get a video camera and say all sorts of stupid things like, “Wow, do you see that? Thelma, go get me a beer! Shut-the-fuck-up-and-get-me-a-beer! I’m taping it, dumbass, you can just watch the tape!”

What’s really cool is the effects of the thermal radiation: Clothing ignites, much of the body suffers third degree burns, newspaper ignites, plywood flames, deciduous trees ignite, and grass ignites. Very cool! When! When! When!?! 0.0618 seconds after impact. Wow! Sucks to be them. Distance, as in ten miles, does make the heart grow fonder, eh? No, wait, the thermal radiation effects can’t be for ground zero – that would be a hole. This affects me? This sucks! You mean their hole is going to become my problem? WTF? At least I don’t read newspapers, so I don’t have to worry about that part. Won’t have to badger the boy to cut the subsequently non-existent grass, either. One less thing to worry about. That’s good. Wait. In 6/100s of a second it will get to me? That’s kinda fast. Could that really be ten miles away? But if like this thing slams into the back of your head and leaves a hole about three miles wide, what the hell is someone calculating that the newspaper would combust? Gotta be ten miles away. This really sucks. Let me try some math to see if I can figure this out. If a train leave the station traveling northbound for 6/100s of second and travels ten miles, toasting all the grass and newspapers along the way, how fast is it going in MPH? Damn. Um. Wait, I know this one. Um. Let’s see. If I take miles/hour, and substitute 10 for miles, and the fractional hour in that lower thingey on the other side of the slash. No wait. I don’t know. Gimme a minute! Um. OK, I think I’m right. 6/100s of a second, figuring 3,600 seconds in an hour is 0.00001667 hours or something like that. OK. 10/that number I just said is 600,000 MPH. But the speed of light is the theoretical maximum speed, and that’s 186,282.397 MP--, MP--. Damn! Miles per SECOND. OK, if a train leaves the station traveling northbound at 600,000 MPH, toasting clothes and trees in its wake, how many miles will it travel in a second? Um. 600,000 miles divided by the number of seconds in an hour, right? This seems familiar. Um. 600,000 / 3,600 = 166.67 MPS. Is that right? If I take 6 times 16, that’s 96, close enough to 100 (being one second) and then 10 times 16 is 160 … OK. Rough check correct. So the, what were we talking about? Thermal radiation, right – yeah, in less than a second it would fry everything around me. Damn. “On second thought, Thelma, here, you hold the camera. I’ll get my own beer.”

There would be a touch of seismic activity, of course, but I’ve ridden out a 7+ before. Let’s see what this would do in light of being 10 miles from the epicenter. I would feel it at 3.22 seconds after impact. Not bad. Would still be locked into the drop-and-roll thing to put my clothes out – or laughing my ass off as Thelma did it as I watched comfortably from inside with cold beer in hand. Richter 6.9 – pussy strength. What does Mercalli say about damage here? Damage negligible in buildings of good design and construction; slight to moderate in well-built ordinary structures; considerable damage in poorly built or badly designed structures; some chimneys broken. Damage slight in specially designed structures; considerable damage in ordinary substantial buildings with partial collapse. Damage great in poorly built structures. Fall of chimneys, factory stacks, columns, monuments, walls. Heavy furniture overturned. Piece of cake. Except that it followed the radiation thingey. This is beginning to suck. For Thelma.

There will be an air blast, too. Good – time to cool off. Get to me about in 48.8 seconds at 69.2 psi and a maximum velocity of 1,130 mph. Ouch! Multistory wall-bearing buildings will collapse. Wood frame buildings will almost completely collapse. Multistory steel-framed office-type buildings will suffer extreme frame distortion, incipient collapse. Highway truss bridges will collapse. Highway girder bridges will collapse. Glass windows will shatter. Cars and trucks will be largely displaced and grossly distorted and will require rebuilding before use. Up to 90 percent of trees blown down; remainder stripped of branches and leaves. OK, this really sucks big time.

Before we get too depressed, we have to remember that ejecta is going to come. When? Approximately 57.4 seconds after the impact. So Thelma cooks in situ, add a little shake to the bake, turn on the cosmic-sized hairdryer, and then I have to dodge shit?!? How big? Average thickness of 36.5 inches and mean fragment diameter of 14.4 feet. That could hurt. Better go inside – Thelma can take care of herself. Are her clothes off yet? Didn’t mess up my hair, did it? I’m trying to grow it out. Damn!

This really blows. Maybe I should move about ten more miles away.

¿Dónde está el cuarto de baño?

Alright, let’s try this. I am still quite cranked, but it has nothing to do with you all – well, most of you at least.

Regardless of writing much of my personal feelings for net publication, I am at heart a private person. Intensely private. I’ve left enough stories in my wake for people to talk for the rest of their lives in some diminishing increment of their pathetic existence. In fact, I’ve faced the wall of blowing my brains all over the forest floor and decided not to because I didn’t want to give the vermin yet another story which either began or ended with, “I knew it would happen.” Talk about pathetic, eh?

I don’t mind being tagged as a vacationing carny. I love that some people tune in just to see if the train wrecked yet. I chuckle when I check my SiteMeter and see locales threaded through my history. I do mind, however, when those given a crow’s nest view of my life abuse the privilege. It is a privilege to be so perched in anyone’s life – there is no aspect of a “right” to it. Privileges, quite by design, can be revoked or, in the alternative, made painfully uncomfortable.

Intensely private. The privilege of the crow’s nest. Painfully uncomfortable. We on the same page? Glad we had this conversation.

Alright. Done. Onward.

New bumper sticker: “Your honor student initiated sex with my dog.”

Found this in my travels: Since light travels faster than sound, is that why
some people appear bright until you hear them speak?

Orlando was good. It was all work – never left the grounds of the conference center. Twelve hundred attendees with a handful of fun folks. Disney dominates that town like something out of Brave New World. It’s frightening. Bus after bus at the airport transported visitors on their pilgrimage to the Land of Manufactured Happy. You gotta know that the Queen of Hearts (or whoever that cranky one is) is a dominatrix in her second job, and that the testosterone-driven unspoken contest each year is to see who can nail the new Alice or Cinderella or Snow White first. Is it a trifecta if you get all three? There is a dark side to Disney, and it is not limited to the frozen cells between Uncle Walt’s ears.

I’ve mentioned this before, but it is worthy of sharing again … you can get a lot of free music through Papaiti. It is nothing more than a specialized google search for indices of mp3s. I just put in an artist name and rarely bother with song titles. Not all hits return music – when you get to a site and within a directory so that you have apparent mp3 files, right click and do “Save As.” If it returns a save as “mp3” you are ready – sometimes it comes back as an html file. Move on to another site. Also, be sure to move up the line on a site by hitting the “parent directory.” Sometimes you tap into the mother lode. I’ve found some good bootleg as well as released music.

I was over on futility closet, and noticed a November 11, 2007 post (tagged, “death”) wherein he lists some “unfortunate grave inscriptions.” I have always enjoyed graveyards. I cannot remember a time when I was not moved to silence as I walked through the resting places. I always notice fresh dirt or flowers as I drive by. I used to wonder what inscription I would want, and I finally realized a few years ago why I could never come up with even a phrase: I am not going to have a gravesite. I want nothing left behind but stories and fading memories. I toyed with the idea of having my ashes made into Christmas ornaments for a few folks that I loved deeply, but that, too, has receded. A few stories, traversing good and bad, a few pics that lose their depth over time and become a two-dimensional rendering of a person the viewer once knew – that is appropriate methinks. “Fade to black, and … cut! On-set break for lunch.”

I have nothing more to say right now. I’ll be your clown later. Have a good day …

later ...

orlando went fine, but for other reasons, the wind is gone out of my sails. i'm done blogging for a while. back to it in a day or a month or whenever.